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The Antigone at Stanford University, by H. VV. Rolfe - - i 

Antigone : A Dramatic Study, by A. T. Murray - - . 4 

The Choral Side of Antigone, by H. Rushton- Fairclough - 22 

Programme of the Original Presentations at Stanford University 67 


THIS little volume is to commemorate the presentation, 
at Stanford University, in April, 1902, of the Antigone 
of Sophocles, in the original Greek, with Mendelssohn's 
choral music. 

This enterprise was taken in hand in December of 1901. 
Four months were given to preparation for it. The roles were 
assumed by members of the Greek dejDartment, students and 
instructors. The chorus was drawn, largely, from the university 
Glee Club. The university orchestra prepared the instrumental 
music. Cast, chorus, and orchestra were self-trained, except for 
help in stage-grouping from a teacher of dramatic art, Mr. Leo 
Cooper, of San Francisco, and the general musical oversight 
exercised by Mr. A. L. Scott Brook, the organist of the memorial 
church. The costumes were made on the ground. 

A translation of the Antigone was prepared and published, 
for purposes of preliminary study and for use at the perform- 
ances. Lectures were given, before the university, interpretative 
of the dramatic action, the function of the chorus, the music. 
The play was read by many in the Greek. The entire university, 
from the first, took the deepest interest in the matter, as did 
groups of persons in San Francisco, Berkeley, and San Jose. 

The initial performances were given in the Assembly Hall, 
on the evening of Thursday, April 17th, and the morning of 
Saturday, April 19th. They were successful, so much so that it 
was decided to take the play to Southern California. This involved 
further interruption of university work, but it seemed certain that 
there would be gain to balance that loss. The aim in preparing 


the play had been, from the outset, to strengthen the cause of 
Cireek studies on the Pacific Coast. So excellent a result in that 
direction had been achieved here in Central California that there 
could be no doubt of the response in the cities of the South. The 
university, therefore, granted a week's leave of absence. 

The play was given in Los Angeles, on April 23d; in Pasa- 
dena, on April 24th; and in Santa Barbara, on April 25th. The 
expenses of the trip, above receipts, were met from the surplus of 
the Stanford performances. 

During the week of absence the directors of the play received 
a cordial invitation from the University of California to give a final 
performance at Berkeley, in the Harmon Gymnasium, on May 
loth. It was accepted. Meanwhile there was a third presentation 
at Stanford, on May 8th. President Wheeler placed the matter at 
Berkeley in the hands of an efficient committee, who made all 
arrangements and assembled a large and generous audience. 
This last representation was the best of the series of seven, and 
the most gratifying. 

The impression made by the play upon the audience seemed 
to be the same at every performance. The interest was intense, 
he emotion deep. No one's attention wandered. Every one 
was too much moved for frequent applause. All, even to the 
childrer. present, were absorbed by the beauty of the costumes and 
stage-pictures and acting and music and choral evolutions. At 
the end, as the chorus marched from sight, the audience rose 
and left the place, it seemed, with much the feeling with which 
the Greeks must have ri.sen on the slopes of the Acropolis, lifting 
their eyes to the familiar landscape once more, from the spot 
where, during the morning hours, they had seen only Antigone 
and Creon and the woes of the house of Labdacus. 

The final outcome of the play has been a remarkable inten- 
sification, throughout the university and in many preparatory 
schools and high schools, of respect for classical studies and 


interest in them. Through these performances many came to see, 
for the first time, the truth of Thoreau's fine words: "Two 
thousar.d summers have imparted to the monuments of Grecian 
literature, as to licr marbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal 
tint, for they have carried their own serene and celestial atmos- 
phere into all lands, to protect them against the coirosion of 
time, works as refined, as soHdly done, and as beautiful almost, 
as the morning itself; for later writers, say what we will of their 
genius, have rarely, if ever, equaled the elaborate beauty and 
finish, and the lifelong and heroic literary labors, of the aiiri-nts." 



THE Antigone of Sophocles, one of a half-dozen extant 
Greek tragedies which deal with the fortunes of the 
royal house of Thebes, was produced in 442 or 440 
B. c. A bare statement of the story, in so far as it 
precedes the action of the play, is as follows : 

CEdipus, son of Laius, King of Thebes, and of his wife 
Jocasto, had all imwittingly fulfilled the awful doom which the 
oracle had declared should be his : he had slain his own father 
and become the husband of his own mother. When the horrible 
relationship became known Jocasta hanged herself, and (Edipus, 
snatching the brooch with which her robe was fastened, dashed 
out his own eyes in horror. 

From this union had sprung two sons, Polynices and 
Eteocles, and two daughters, Antigone and Ismene. CEdipus — 
of whose end varying tales are told — had cursed his sons, that 
they should divide his inheritance with the sword. They resolved 
to rule alternately, and Polynices, the elder (for so Sophocles 
conceives him), after reigning a year, yielded the throne to his 
brother. When, however, the second year had elapsed, Eteocles 
refused to give place, and Polynices, in wrath, withdrew to 
Argos, where he allied himself to the royal house, and, in league 
with si.x other chieftains, led an army against his native land — to 
win by force the throne that was his due. 

The attack failed, the Argive host fled in rout, and the two 
doomed brothers fell — each slain by the other's spear. 

It is at this point that the Antigone opens. The kingship 
has devolved upon Creon, the brother of Jocasta, and hence the 



uncle of Antigone and Ismene. He has put forth an edict that 
Eteocles shall be buried with all honor, but that the corpse of 
Polynices shall be left unburied, for dogs and birds to rend. It 
must be remembered that this, to the Greek, was the most 
dreadful fate that could befall a man, for on the burial of the 
corpse depended the welfare of the spirit in the world below. It 
was therefore a sacred duty to perform due rites over the dead — 
if it were only the symbolic sprinkling of a few handfuls of 
dust — and this duty rested with especial weight upon the ne.xt 
of kin. 

Hence it is easy for us to understand, in measure at least, 
the position in which Antigone was placed, and the poet, with 
great art, has at once emphasized that position and shown how 
impossible it would have been for the high-minded girl, filled 
with loyalty to the dead brother, traitor though he was, to have 
chosen any other course. For the characterization of the person- 
ages in the play is wholly admirable. With the concentration, 
the restraint of antique art, they are not analyzed with the 
subtlety which so engrosses us often on the modern stage ; the 
soul is not laid bare before us ; but the overpowering emotion or 
resolve is thought of as already possessing the heart, so that we 
see it in act, moving resistless to its inevitable end. So the 
proud girl, nobly loyal to the sacred duty that is laid upon her, 
recks not of the consequences to herself and can be coldly defiant 
toward Creon, for whose short-sighted maxims of government 
and civic duty — essentially sound though they are — she has but 
contempt; while, in her exalted mood, to do and to die is a priv- 
ilege. An Antigone, wavering between a sense of duty to the 
dead and the fear of the consequences of disobeying the king's 
edict, would be a figure wholly alien to the spirit of Sophoclean art. 

Beside Antigone stands her sister, Ismene, a character often 
misunderstood. She is gentle, loving, and lovable, but not cast 
in the heroic mould. She recognizes the duty that rests upon 


her, as upon her sister, but, under the circumstances, it cannot be 
fulfilled ; the State has forbidden the act, and defy the State she 
cannot. She will pray the dead to pardon her, and live as she 
may — in subjection to those stronger than she. She begs her 
sister to recall the horrible past of their family — patricide and 
incest, though unwitting, a miserable end for both parents, and 
now again the death in mutual combat of their two brothers. 
Shall they defy authority and perish most basely of all ? Nay, 
they are powerless; the dead will forgive. 

Here two points — subtle enough, perhaps, to be overlooked 
by the casual reader — suggest theinselves. To Ismene, Creon 
represents the State, and so it is their bounden duty to obey; to 
Antigone his edict is the expression of the will of one who, 
through circumstances, has come to stand at the head of the State, 
but who is, after all, a tyrant — in the Greek sense: one, that is, 
who arrogates all power to himself and rules justly or unjustly, 
with mildness or severity, as he will. He may be resisted even 
by the good citizen; and she says to his face that the jDeople of 
Thebes side with her. In this view, it is to be remembered, the 
poet himself and the thousands who thronged the theatre on that 
spring day so long ago, would join. 

The second point is that this difference in nature, in temper- 
ament, this radically different point of view, ser\'es to isolate 
Antigone from the only person in the play to whom she could 
look for sympathy. There is no chorus of women upon whom 
she could lean : the chorus is made up of Theban elders, cold and 
politic in their submission to Creon ; and Greek feeling pre- 
cluded the introduction of scenes which would have brought into 
prominence her relation to her betrothed, Hcemon, Creon' s son. 
In this situation, repelled by the very sister who should have acted 
with her, small wonder if the tension she is under makes her 
harsh — cruelly harsh, we feel. Yet all the more effective are the 
moments when love for that sister finds expression. 


In a great scene in which Antigone, caught in the act of 
pouring libations over the dead, is brought before the angry king, 
she calmly acknowledges her guilt — if guilt it be — and appeals to 
the eternal and unwritten statutes of heaven, in the face of which 
his edict sinks into insignificance. Here is, in a sense, the prob- 
lem of the play — more clearly a conflict of duties than in most of 
the thirty-three Greek tragedies we possess. Strictly speaking, 
there can be no conflict of duties, since only one can be para- 
mount at one time ; but it is part of life's tragedy that obedience 
to a high principle may bring the individual into collision with 
law, with convention, with family ties ; and the individual may 
suffer or be crushed in consequence. This holds true even if 
questions of " poetic justice " be flung to the winds. Sophocles 
did not weigh Antigone and Creon nicely in the balance that he 
might apportion to each the due measure of suffering. Those 
who find Antigone's character not flawless must not use that fact 
to account for her suffering. That suffering is the inevitable 
result of the situation in which she is placed. If she seems cruel 
to her weaker sister, that cruelty is to be explained, in part at 
least, by the strain she is under, and, in part, by a desire to save 
that sister's life. 

For, when Ismene is brought in, she appears in a changed 
mood. Not strong enough to do and dare with her sister, when 
the deed was planned, now that it is over and Antigone must die, 
a great wave of emotion sweeps over her. She can at least die 
with her. So, when asked, she avows her guilt and takes her 
stand at her sister' s side. She is repelled with words so true, and 
yet so harsh, that the truth is plain even to Creon. But amid the 
harshness there is seen now and again the love of a sister, too 
true to brook falsehood, yet the very sadness of whose lot con- 
sists, in part, in that they two must go their separate ways. 
Finally Antigone is led away to her dreadful doom — to be interred 
alive. Now the strength that enabled her to act regardless of 


consequences to herself, the strentrth that nerved her before 
Creon, fails her, in a measure, and the inevitable reaction comes. 
Life is so fair, and she must bid it farewell, must leave lovely 
Thebes with its fountains, leave the light of day and go down 
into the darkness, with none to pity, none to mourn ! Denied 
the joys of love, she shall be the bride of Death ! O the pity of 
it, the mystery of it ! 

Creon, the king, is a character broadly but forcibly drawn. 
He is honest and well-meaning, and brings to his position of 
authority abundant loyalty, and a good stock of sound, if some- 
what conventional, views of government ; but his nature is a 
narrow one, and his point of view only too apt to be personal. 
In his first speech he lays down the principles of his rule — honor 
to the loyal and dishonor to the disloyal. Hence his edict con- 
cerning Polynices, an edict springing, it is true, from a sound 
principle, but itself violating a higher law. When the guard 
brings word that that edict has been defied, Creon becomes at 
once furious. Brushing aside the opinions of others and brooking 
no advice, however well meant, he asserts his own view : this is 
the work of disaffected citizens who have bribed the guards. Let 
them produce the doer under penalty of an awful fate for them- 
selves. And all this coupled with many commonplaces, many 
generalities — how characteristic of a narrow nature ! The State 
has been defied, but so has Creon, and we feel already that it is 
this last fact that rankles. 

So we are prepared in advance for the great scene mentioned 
abov-e. He has been defied, defied, it now appears, by a mere 
girl, who, instead of breaking down, glories in her act and prates 
about higher laws than his. Verily she is the man, not he, if she 
perish not miserably, sister's child to him though she be, and 
betrothed to his own son. 

Then that son appears, not a frantic lover, but in the very 
spirit of filial submission. And the father shows the fitness of 


this submission, the wisdom of his course — more generalities, 
more good maxims — yet when the young man ventures to sug- 
gest counter-considerations which directly concern the father in 
his position as ruler, Creon is again furious. Shall a mere boy 
teach him wisdom? Nay, though all Thebes side with the disaf- 
fected, is not he king, and shall he not rule as he will ? So at 
last the despairing youth rushes from the stage with words which, 
we know, betoken a resolve not to survive his betrothed, and 
Creon — who had just bidden his attendants to bring forth "the 
hated thing" that she might die before her lover's eyes — declares 
the terrible fate in store for her. So is it that passion chjuds the 
mind ; even as Antigone is led away, he breaks out once more, 
and — a noteworthy touch — asserts that he is pure in the matter of 
her death ; but die she shall, and her guards shall have cause to 
rue their slowness. 

Now comes the aged seer, Tiresias, with words of warning. 
Creon is startled with dread, for Tiresias' s words are sooth ; but 
as the seer declares that it is because of the king' s act that the gods 
have been alienated and bids him rectify the wrong he has done, 
dread gives place to another feeling — not to wrath at first, but. as 
it were, to bewilderment. Was e\^er well-meaning man so beset ? 
Even the seer will send a shaft at him ; and again, in self-defense 
it may be, he comes back to the same thought : Tiresias has been 
suborned, hired by malcontents to assail him. Then the seer 
speaks again, and speaks words of doom, telling of the fate that 
is in store for the unhappy king, — the death of one sprung from 
his loins in requital for the dead, the shrieks of men and women 
in his house, the hostility of states whose fallen sons ha\'e been 
rent by dogs and birds. 

Then Creon breaks down ; hurriedly calling his servants he 
sets out to undo what he has done, but it is too late. From the 
lips of a messenger we learn that Polynices's corpse was buried, 
but that when they reached the cave where Antigone was 


entombed, they found her hanging in the noose with which she had 
hung herseh", and Hiemon, frantic with grief, cHnging to her dead 
body. A maddened rush at the father who had caused this woe, 
and then the sword plunged into his own side ! Such was the 
tale, told in part before the queen, who in silent anguish goes 
within to take her life. 

Here again a question of much interest suggests itself. 
Creon first proceeds to give interment to the corpse of Polynices ; 
he then goes to liberate Antigone, but is too late. This has 
seemed a dramatic blemish, a flaw in structure, even to so sound 
and so sympathetic a critic as Sir Richard Jebb, who maintains 
that ' ' we are not given any reason for the burial being taken in 
hand before the release," and who himself holds that Sophocles 
here disregarded probability and the fitting order of events solely 
that the following speech of the messenger, narrating the catas- 
trophe, might end with a climax and so satisfy rhetorical canons. 

This seems to me impossible and based upon a wrong inter- 
pretation of Creon' s character. Rightly understood his attitude 
from the first is that of one who represents the State. In his 
speeches he ever recurs to that idea, and the grounds upon which 
his cruel edict regarding Polynices was based were grounds of 
State interest. Short-sighted his policy was, but it was sincere. 
Now through the terrible words of the seer he learns that the 
wrath of heaven menaces, not him alone, but the State because of 
the sin he has committed in leaving the corpse of Polynices 
unburied, — an act as a result of which the very altars of the gods 
have been polluted. He will therefore seek to make this good 
by interring the dead. The gods must be propitiated and the 
safety of the State conserved. It is only as a secondary matter 
that Antigone is to be released. Tiresias had not mentioned her 
in his opening speech, in which he had so clearly pointed to the 
king as the one by whose act the favor of heaven had been alien- 
ated. It is this that fills Creon' s mind; and he turns first to the 


interment of Polynices as the duty that touches him most nearly 
as the head of the State. His attitude towards Antigone is not 
essentially changed ; yet he will release her since the seer has 
declared that in immuring a living soul in the tomb he has again 
sinned against the gods, and he will leave nothing undone that 
might restore his peace. 

After the messenger's speech telling of the fulfilment of the 
prophet's words the king again appears. Now he is changed 
indeed — all the joy of life and of kingship gone, and through his 
own folly. There is no more pride, no more self-confidence ; 
only heartbreaking grief and the wish that death might come to 
him too — a rash, foolish man, who has himself caused the death of 
those he loved best. 

For the rest, the simplicity of structure, the long speeches, 
the dearth, some will say, of action, Httle need be said. To the 
Greek the theory of dramatic structure was not summed up in 
the development of a good fifth act, nor was he inclined to hasten 
to the end. He loved well the stately, statuesque scenes, the 
rhythmical movements of the chorus and its lyric' song ; but he 
loved, too, effecti\e narrative and logical statement ; and in these 
speeches he found much that, while it appealed to his sense of 
reasonableness, added no little to the deep delight that came from 
seeing the poet's profound interpretation of the facts of life as 
seen in the play. A_ T. Murray. 


A GREEK tragedy resembles a modern opera to this 
extent — that certain portions have a musical settinjj^ and 
are presented by a chorus. This chorus, however, is not 
an accidental or external element, but is, historically, 
the oldest and most essential characteristic. Originally, indeed, 
The Chonts tragedies were purely lyrical, — stories set forth 
Essential to wholly in song and dance. With the develojjment 
Grtr ijageay. of dialogue, the chorus was gradually subordinated 
to this more dramatic element, but not until the decline of tragic 
art had set in, did the Greek chorus serve as a mere ornament. 
In Sophocles, therefore, representing as he does the high-water 
mark of Greek tragedy, the chorus must be regarded as an 
artistic essential, and in him the lyric and dramatic elements are 
blended in perfect harmony. 

The Greeks themseKes regarded the chorus as a dramatis 

persona, and this is why, in the Stanford programme of the 

Its Function Antigone, the chorus of Thel)an elders is given 

as a Dramatis a place in the cast. The chorus, then, is an actor 

Persona. ^^ acting body, and under the direction of the 

coryphieus participates in the action of the piece. Nor is its part 

unimportant. Of all the dramatis personce, it is the one most in 

evidence during the play, making its apj^earance immediately 

after the introductory scene {\\\^ prologue, in the Greek sense of 

the word), and being the last to leave the stage. Its continuous 

presence throughout the piece secures for the play a sense of 

harmony, and an unbroken unity, which the modern drama of 

the Romantic school, with all its merits, can never claim. The 



chorus are interested spectators of the action from first to last. 
They receive and impart information, give and accept counsel, 
interpret the motives of conduct, relie\'e the monotony incidental 
to long speeches, and in various ways facilitate a natural outwork- 
ing of the dramatic situations. 

As elders of the State, the chorus of the Antigone are vitally 
concerned in the welfare of both princes and people. They 
receive with due respect the message of the new illustrated 
king, and though they betray a doubt as to the frmn the 
wisdom of his course, yet they express their loyal Antigone. 
submission to his decree (211-220). On learning the startling 
news that some one unknown has paid the burial dues to Poly- 
nices, they hazard the conjecture (278-9) that divine hands have 
done the deed, whereupon they are sharply rebuked by the king. 

The arrest of Antigone makes a profound impression upon 
the chorus. That she, a royal maiden, the daughter of CEdipus, 
should wilfully disobey the king, is past their understanding 
(376-383). They can attribute her act only to passionate folly 


In the angry scene which follows, both Antigone and Creon 
claim to have the approval of the chorus, who however wisely 
hold their peace, until the appearance of Ismene elicits the beau- 
tiful anapaests, which show where their real sympathy lies. Their 
genuine grief over the threatened punishment of Antigone leads 
shortly to an actual remonstrance with the king (574), who by 
his curt and sarcastic replies soon silences all opposition on their 

Throughout the scene between Haemon and his father, the 
chorus adopt a strictly neutral attitude (681-2, 724-5), though on 
the former's departure they suggest to the king that he should 
make some allowance for the heat of youth. A moment later, a 
hint from Creon that Ismene is to share her sister' s fate calls forth 
a veiled protest (770), to which Creon deigns to give heed. As 


to Antigone, the chorus attempt no more pleading on her 
behalf, but simply inquire by what mode he intends to put her 
to death. 

In the king's absence, the chorus freely avow that pity for 
Antigone tempts them to rebel against his sentence (800-5). 
When the doomed maiden appears they offer words of comfort, 
which, in her distress, sound like hollow mockery (839), where- 
upon they confess their conviction that, notwithstanding her 
nobility of conduct, the punishment was inevitable and is, in a 
sense, self-imposed (872-5). Antigone's last words are addressed 
to the chorus, as " lords of Theb^," who behold the sufferings 
of this last daughter of their kingly race (940-3). 

After the stormy scene between Creon and Tiresias, the 
chorus plainly warn the king that he is pursuing a ruinous Course, 
and as he is now disposed to listen to reason, they counsel him to 
undo the wrong at once by setting Antigone free. The king 
yields. It is at this point that the dramatic function of the chorus, 
in its capacity as an actor influencing the action of the piece, can 
be seen most conspicuously. In the rest of the play, the chorus 
serve mainly as the recipients of the evil tidings brought by the 
messenger, or as the confidants of the unhappy monarch, who 
now confesses his terrible error to the very men whose advice he 
had so hastily and foolishly rejected. 

But notwithstanding this oft-forgotten importance of the dra- 
matic side of the chorus, we must emphasize the fact that its 

Lvrial "i^i" function is, after all, not dramatic but lyriail. 

Function of the All great tragedies, whether Sophoclean or Shake> 
dot us. pearian, are poems charged with emotion, but 
while in a Shakespearian play this emotion finds expression in 
outbursts of lofty poetry on the lips of the principal characters, 
in a Sophoclean such imaginative flights are almost wholly con 
fined to distinctly lyrical passages, presented by the whole chorus 
in true lyrical fashion — with song-and-dance accompaniment. In 


Shakespeare, such exalted poetry as characterizes certain scenes in 
the dialogue, e. g., Macbeth' s — 

" Methought I heard a voice cry, 'Sleep no more,'" 
or again, the great soliloquies, such as Hamlet's — 

"To be or not to be," 
or Wolsey's — 

" Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! " 

however beautiful as poetry, are essentially undramatic in spirit, 
and always present peculiar difficulties to actors in the rendition. 
Only the greatest can prevent such scenes from becoming gro- 

Now, in a Greek tragedy, these imaginative lyrics — which, 
after all, are essential in some form to every great drama, instead 
of being diffused throughout the play, appear usually in more 
concentrated form at the most important stages of the action. 
The result is that, unlike a modern play, for which stage-managers 
often feel compelled to provide irrelevant interludes, a Greek 
tragedy is a continuous, unbroken performance, the purely dra- 
matic scenes being punctuated, as it were, by lofty choral odes — 
' ' lyrical interbreathings ' ' — which interpret the spiritual mean- 
ing of the play, and are, therefore, perfectly relevant to the 
-situation, but which, at the same time, from the manner of their 
rendition, afford a pleasing relief to the strain on the spectator's 

In the Antigone there are six of these choral odes — beauti- 
ful compositions, which show much variety in lyrical conception. 
The first (100-154) is a brilliant one, opening choral 

and closing w-ith strains of joyful exultation. The Odes of /he 
Theban elders, assembling in response to the igone. 

king's summons, greet the newly risen sun, '* loveliest light that 
ever shone on seven-gated Theb^," and describe in vivid fashion 


the terrors of the Argive attack, the overthrow of Polynices, and 
the subsequent flight of the besieging host. For so glorious a 
victory they pour forth their thankfulness to the gods, whose 
shrines they will visit under the leadership of Bacchus himself, 
the tutelar god of Thebes. 

The first episode, a term which practically coincides with the 
modern act, comprises Creon's lengthy address upon a king's 
duties and the announcement of his edict. This is followed by 
the startling tidings that some daring person has already violated 
the edict. Hence, in their second ode (332-375), the chorus are 
led to reflect upon the mar\'elous ingenuity of man, who makes 
himself master of sea and land ; who subdues to himself the fowls 
of the air, the fishes of the sea, and the beasts of the field ; and 
who has provided himself with all resources, save only against 
Death. This inventive skill brings him to evil as well as to good. 
When he upholds law and justice (as does Creon), he and his 
State prosper, but when in his audacity he breaks the laws, ruin 
must l)e his lot. " Never may he share my hearth, or think my 
thoughts, who doth such things ! ' ' 

When the sentence of death is passed upon Antigone, the 
chorus (582-625), in saddened tone, ponder on the destiny of the 
royal house of Thebes, upon which the waves of trouble never 
cease to break. Generation after generation is weighed dov^n 
with calamity, and now utter extinction threatens the race. What 
mortal, they cry, can set limits to the power of omnipotent Zeus? 
By divine law, inordinate success or ambition brings to man a 
curse, for in his blindness he falls into sin, and then " but for the 
briefest space fares he free from woe." Thus do the chorus 
unconsciously suggest Creon's subsequent punishment. 

In the third episode, Ha^^mon vainly intercedes for his 
betrothed, and then quits the scene in anger. The charming ode 
which follows (78 1 -See) sings the resistless power of Love, who 
sways mortals and immortals alike, and warps the minds even of 


the just. It is under his spell that Haemon has been disobedient 
to his father and disloyal to his king. 

As Antigone passes to her rocky tomb, the chorus, in their 
fifth ode (944-987), reflect upon the truth that no mortal can 
escape fate and recall three other royal personages, who ha\e suf- 
fered the horrors of a cruel punishment. Danae, a princess of 
Argos, was immured in a brazen chamber ; Lycurgus, king of 
Thrace, was imprisoned in a rocky cave ; and Cleopatra, of the 
ancient house of the Erechthidae, and daughter of Boreas, endured 
in agony the blinding of her sons by the woman who supplanted 
her as wife of Phineus. 

The last ode (1115-1154) has a distinct dramatic purpose. 
The seer Tiresias has warned Creon that divine vengeance for his 
offenses most surely awaits him, and after a short consultation 
with the chorus the king has hastened forth to undo, if possible, 
his terrible misdeeds. The chorus are filled with hope that his 
repentance will avert the horrors foretold by the seer, and, in fervid 
and exultant strains of joyful anticipation, invoke the saving 
presence of the god, whom Thebes delights to honor — the bright 
and glorious Dionysus. 

But the lyrical quality, which is so conspicuous in a Greek 
tragedy, is not necessarily confined to the choral odes, nor indeed 
to the chorus itself. Thus in the Antigone, two Tvrics in the 
passages in the dialogue are distinctly lyrical, and Dialogue of the 
in the original are given in the strophic form, with " igotie. 

metres characteristic of lyric poetry. 

The fourth episode (806-943) is mainly of this character. 
Antigone is led forth from the palace, to be conducted presently 
to her rocky tomb. The full significance of her fate seems to be 
borne in upon her, as she beholds for the last time the light of 
the sun and the sacred soil of her native land, and in the presence 
of the elders she pours forth her sad lament in touching strains. 
It is worth noticing that the measures assigned to the chorus in 


this pathetic scene are less emphatically lyrical than those given 
to Antigone. Her emotion is naturally at its height at this 
point, whereas the chorus, though extremely sympathetic, are 
the less impassioned witnesses, who do not lose sight of the logic 
of the situation. 

The second passage occurs near the end of the play. Creon 
enters (1260) with the body of Ha;mon, and in accents of remorse 
and despair bewails his unhappy fate, and prays for a speedy 
death. The metre, assigned here by the poet to Creon, is mainly 
the dochmiac, which is expressive of the most intense and tem- 
pestuous emotion, whereas the chorus employs the metre of 
ordinary dialogue — the iambic trimeter — which passes into a 
marching measure, as the broken-hearted Creon leaves the stage 
and the chorus follow, chanting a sad strain on the fall that waits 
upon pride. 

An analysis of this sort shows how intimately blended in 
Sophocles are the lyric and dramatic elements of tragedy, and this 
Four Kinds of ^'"'"^^ "^ ^^ ^^ question of their mode of presen- 
V^ocal Express- tation. It should always be borne in mind that 
ions in Tragedy, ^^agedy was at first wholly lyrical, a stor>' set 
forth in a dance-song. The musical element, therefore, far from 
being extraneous to Greek tragedy, was an original feature, and 
even when the dramatic side was fully developed, we have ample 
evidence that much of the dialogue was rendered with a musical 
delivery. Plutarch, for instance, tells us that the tragedians fol- 
lowed the custom, first set by Archilochus, of having their iambics 
(the ordinary dialogue) only partially, not wholly (as had been 
the custom) sung, and musical recitative, we know, was always 
employed very largely on the Greek stage. ' In fact, the presen- 
tation of a Greek tragedy in ancient times necessitated four kinds 
of vocal expression, viz., plain sjjeech, and three forms of musical 
or semi-musical delivery, all of which involved an instrumental 

I See .S/iiihf\ m Hntiiir of Basil Lan>i>-aii (iililfi sifrve. \i. iii ( Baltinv>re. igoii. 


accompaniment. These were melodramatic declamation, musical 
recitative, and distinct melody. It is impossible to define with 
precision the limits assigned to these modes of delivery in regard 
to any particular Greek play. Probably considerable latitude 
was allowed in this respect, so that two choregi would follow a 
different practice for the same play. 

Plain speech, without musical accompaniment, was the rule 
for the trimeters of ordinary dialogue, though we know from 
Lucian (as well as from Plutarch), that even these 
were sometimes sung. Melodies were, of course, Plam Speech. 
employed in the choral odes, as well as in the 
impassioned lyrical scenes in which the actors participated, e. g., 
the laments, in strophic form, of Antigone and Creon. Inter- 
mediate between plain dialogue and pure lyrics 
were the portions of tragedy which were Melody. 
delivered either in musical recitative or in melodra- 
matic declamation. * The form adopted depended, no doubt, 
upon the emotional character of the scene, and the place it 
occupies in the play. 

Thus melodrama, i. e. , ordinary speech with musical accom- 
paniment, was the form naturally employed in those anapaestic 
lines with which the coryphaeus, at the close of a 
choral ode, calls attention to the appearance of a Melodrama. 
new character on the stage, as in the case of 
Creon, Antigone, and Hamon (155- 161, 376-383, 626-630), 
From the musical point of view, melodrama would afford a natural 
transition from the sung lyrics to the spoken dialogue. In the 
case of Ismene's entrance (526-530), which is made, not at the 
end of a choral ode, but in the course of the dialogue between 
Creon and Antigone, the pathos of the lines uttered would account 
sufficiently for the introduction of music with the anapaests, while 

2 Some writers make the mistake of failing to distinguish these two modes. Thus 
Haijih, The Attic Theatre^ p. joi. 


on the other hand the position of the lines used (i 180-2). the 
iambic metre, and the commonplace character of the statement 
made, would all indicate that Eurydice's appearance was heralded 
without music of any sort. Creon's final appearance at the side 
of Hremon's bier (1257- 1260) is announced by anapaests, the 
melodramatic delivery of which would be a natural mode of pass- 
ing from the dialogue to the lyrics which were undoubtedly sung 
by Creon. 

On the other hand, recitative, by which is meant a musical 
chant delivery, not necessarily confined to a single voice, must 
have been employed in the anajxestic systems 
Recitative. (110-115, 127-133, 141-147) which separate the 
strophes of the first choral ode, as well as in the 
like systems, which are employed by the chorus between the 
strophes of Antigone's lyrical lament (817-822, 834-839). 
Further on in this latter scene, the chorus break into full melody, 
in response to Antigone's song, employing a short strophe with 
corresponding antistrophe (853-856=872-875). The anapaests 
(800-5), with which the coryphaeus announces the final appearance 
of Antigone, may well have been sung in recitative. They are 
full of emotion, and do not introduce plain dialogue, but stand 
between two strophic systems of lyrics. The single iambic lines 
(1270, 1293), with which the chorus give to the actor of Creon's 
part a moment's breathing-space between the strophes of his song, 
were also probably sung in recitative, which would be the most 
natural mode of expression for lines in such a position. Certainly, 
the scene is too intensely lyrical for the employment of plain 
speech at such points. The same is true of the choral iambics in 
the remainder of this scene, including the single iambic line 
( 1336) of Creon's, just before the last strophe of his piteous song : 

" Yet all I crave is summed up in that prayer." 
The closing anajjoests, which point the moral of the play, were 
probably sung in recitative by the whole chorus. The lyrical 


agitation, just preceding, has been too intense to permit a sudden 
drop to mere melodrama, to say nothing of plain speech, and it 
is hardly necessary to add that the chant of the whole chorus at 
the close of the play is extremely impressive.' 

The combination of these several modes of vocal expression 
introduced great variety into the presentation of a play, and must 
have done much toward relieving the monotony y ■ . 

which we are inclined to associate with a Greek in the 

tragedy, on account of the unchanged scene, the Presentation. 
non-employment of interludes, and a strict observance of the 
unities of time and place. 

Let us illustrate this statement by that portion of the play 
which intervenes between the third and fourth choral odes. After 
the singing of the hymn to Eros (781-799) by illustration 
the whole chorus, the coryphaeus chanted in reci- from the 
tative the following anapaests (800-805). Then Antigone. 
come the lyrics sung by Antigone — two strophes, two anti- 
strophes and an epode (after-song), intermingled with which are 
the X^KO anapaestic systems chanted by the chorus in recitati\'e, 
and the single strophe (853-6), with its corresponding antistrophe 
(S72-5), which were sung in melody. In the sudden change to 
spoken iambics, Creon administers a harsh rebuke for these ' ' songs 
and lamentations" (883), and sharply orders the guards to lead 
t-lieir prisoner away. Antigone, however, is allowed to renew 
her lament (891), which is no longer uttered in lyrical song, but 
has subsided into plain iambics, delivered, I am inclined to think, 
with a musical accompaniment. As she turns to leave the stage 
the chorus speak of the fierce tempest in her soul, in melo- 
dramatic anapaests, which Creon, in disdainful mockery, also 
employs, as he launches a threat at the guards for their slowness. 
Antigone's final anapaests, as the guards at last carry out Creon 's 
order, may well, in view of the rising emotion, have been ren- 

1 See Haigh, The Attic Theatre, p. 544. 


dered in recitative, thus leading vip by a natural gradation to the 
long choral ode, which precedes the entrance of Tiresias. 

In the choral odes, we have the complete combination of the 
sister arts of poetry, music, and dance, — a combination, which, 

Ui itv ^^"^ from being artificial, is but the artistic devel- 

ofthe Lyric opment of an ancient and even primitive concep- 
tion of the essential unity of these rhythmic arts. 
The Greek lyric or dramatic poet was necessarily a musician, and 
not only wrote the verses to be sung, but gave them their 
musical setting. Further, he possessed a practical knowledge of 
orchestic, and originally taught the chorus the various gestures, 
postures and attitudes, which, under the name dancing, aided in 
the expression of emotion and the interpretation of his verse. 

The Greek dancer desired to give visible expression by means 
of rhythmical movements of the body, to the words of the song. 
Hence gesticulation was the most prominent 
Greek Dancing, feature of the art, and the hands and arms of the 
dancer were more in evidence than his feet. This 
dancing was not confined even to the lyrical parts of a drama. 
We are told, for example, that Telestes, who lived in the days of 
itschylus, was such an excellent artist that in dancing the Seven 
aj^ainst Thebes, he brought the incidents vividly before his 
audience. This cannot but refer to his art in illustrating the 
lengthy descriptive speeches of the play. The whole action of a 
drama was, of course, followed by the chorus with keen interest, 
and the constant by-play in which it indulged might well come 
under the head of dancing. There must, in fact, have been 
infinite varieties of dancing, though we know that the art was to 
some extent systematized for purposes of instruction and reduced 
to certain types. Tragic dances naturally differed from comic ones, 
and were usually confined to stately and dignified motions. Their 
character, however, depended entirely upon the nature of the 
ode. In the Antigone, the invocation to Bacchus belongs to the 


class of odes known as hyporchemata, in which the dance-move- 
ments are unusually lively. This is, of course, in keeping with 
the situation. The first ode, too, which involves the vivid 
description of a battle, and the joyous exultation of victors, must 
have been accompanied by a very spirited dance. In the reflective 
odes, the dancing was more subdued, but one noticeable artistic 
feature of a play like the Antigone is the variety of its lyric 
thought, and the consequent variety of expressive orchestic 
movements which it involves. 

The music of the ancient Greeks deserves more than the 
slight notice which the limits of this paper will allow. It is usual 
to dismiss the subject with the remark that Greek 
music was utterly different from the modern art, Greek Music. 
and being in a primitive stage is hardly worthy of 
our consideration. " We are deaf to its appeal and incredulous 
of its beauty." ' One might as well dispose of Greek mathe- 
matics in the same way. We should remember that with the 
Greeks music was "an art as living as poetry or sculpture " ^ — 
an art which engaged the attention of their noblest intellects, and 
upon which many scientific treatises were written. Unfortunately, 
very little of their actual music has survived, and this little belongs 
to a late period, when all the arts had sadly declined from their 
earlier greatness. However, the music of the Hymn to Apollo, 
which was composed in the third century before Christ, and 
which, engraved on marble in the Greek notation, was discovered 
by the French archaeologists at Delphi in 1893, has elicited much 
admiration from cultivated audiences in Europe and America, 
because of its ample melodiousness, its noble serenity, and its 
uplifting spirituality. Judging from this late specimen alone, we 
may well believe that the best Greek music, as Plato has it, could 
' ' sink into our inmost soul and take hold of it most powerfully. ' ' ' 

I and 2 From a review of Professor Macraii's The Harmonics of Aristoxenus in 
the London Tinifs' literarv supplement, Dec, 1901. 
} Republic , III, 401' D. 


The main difference between the ancient and modern art lies 
in the fact that vocal music was pure melody, harmony Ixring 
Contrast confined to instrumental music. All Greek singing 
with Modem was therefore in unison, the accompaniment alone 
«-y'^- being in harmony. This method, as is well known, 

is frequently employed even today in the sacred music of many 
great continental churches. In their lyric song, the Greeks 
regarded the poetic thought as of prime importance, and the 
music, aided by the dance, was exjiected, not to obscure, but to 
emphasize and illuminate the words employed. Thus the music 
of an ode was much less complex than the elaborate harmonies of 
a modern opera, though, on the other hand, by reason of the 
intricate rhythmical structure of the ode, it must have been far 
more complicated than the simple airs, repeated with every stanza, 
of our national and popular ballads. At the same time, the 
rhythm of Greek music was always strongly marked, as we may 
infer from Plato and Aristotle. The time, too, was in strict accord 
with the verse-metre, so that, for example, owing to the frequent 
use in poetry of cretic (-u- ) and p^eonian (-vw) feet, five-fourth 
time (illustrated by the Hymn to Apollo^, though quite rare in 
modern music, was common with the Greeks. Abo\e all, Greek 
music, in its various modes, whatever be the correct theory as to 
their nature, was able to interpret adequately many states of feel- 
ing, and could give fitting and satisfying expression to the various 
mental attitudes reflected in lyrical song. 

Knowing then these leading facts about the Greek lyric art, 
let us consider what kind of music — in view of the loss of the 

ancient — we should employ in a modern repre- 
^^Afitigive"^ sentation of the Antzgonr. For this play, at the 

instance of Frederick William IV of Prussia, 
Mendelssohn in 1841 composed some of the most beautiful choral 
music ever written. Those who are thoroughly familiar with both 
the music and the Greek text know how admirably he has inter- 


preted the spirit of the original in strains that appeal to the 
modern ear. The Greek itself, as well as Donner's German 
translation, was evidently before the musician's eyes while com- 
posing his work. In adapting the music to the original text, as 
was done for the Stanford performances, one very seldom finds 
that the Greek metrical feet and the musical phrasing do not 
closely correspond. The metrical accent almost invariably coin- 
cides with the main beat of the musical measure, and it not infre- 
quently happens that the music is better suited to the Greek than 
to. the translation, made "in the metres of the original." The 
result is a set of brilliant choruses for male voices, which have 
an almost unique musical value. 

No one, of course, pretends to claim that Mendelssohn's 
music enables us to realize, in any degree, the character of the 
lost original. It must be judged wholly from a Poittt<; of 
modern standpoint. And yet certain of its features Resemblance to 
remind us of the leading characteristics of the ^''^'''^ Music. 
Greek art. A large portion of it is sung in unison ; the rhythm 
is strongly marked ; each note corresponds, as a rule, to a sep- 
arate verse-syllable ; and only occasionally has the composer 
yielded to the temptation of allowing different words to be sung 
by different parts of the chorus at the same time. Moreover, the 
frequent use of recitative and melodrama is, as we have shown, 
thoroughly in accord with Greek usage, and in this connection it 
is interesting to observe that xMendelssohn's lyric genius has led 
him to follow pretty closely the general principles observed by 
the ancients in distributing the forms of musical expression. 
Above all, the music never overrides the poetic thought, but 
assists it with such expressiveness that a hearer, though ignorant 
of the Greek, can hardly fail to follow the general meaning. 

We have dwelt thus fully upon the main features of Men- 
delssohn's Antigone, because there are some who maintain that 
the use of this modern music serves to convey to the spectators a 


wrong impression as to the character of a Greek play. Such 
critics would prefer to present the Antig^one with a minimum 
amount of colorless music, specially composed by 
Its Suitability, some local musician. Such a step may be neces- 
sary in the case of most plays, but when a great 
genius like Mendelssohn has provided the Antigone with a beau- 
tiful and adequate musical setting, I see no good reason for putting 
it aside in favor of a purely pedantic composition, which can never 
appeal to modern ears and hearts in the way in which the ancient 
music stirred the emotions of the hearers. For, after all, a modern 
presentation of a Greek masterpiece should aim at producing the 
ensemble effect of the original, and this can never be done if we 
employ music which means little to us, because, forsooth, we 
choose to imagine that the ancient music was valueless. Amid 
all our ignorance of the actual music of the Greeks, one fact, at 
least, is impressed upon us over and over again by the ancient 
\\ Titers, and that is that the music of their great lyric poets was a 
spiritual power, which ' ' sank into the inmost soul, ' ' and con- 
tributed to the upbuilding of a manly, noble, and beautiful char- 

An able critic of the Stanford performances' described the 
genius of Mendelssohn as " half Christian, half Jewish," and 
j^. therefore unsuited for Greek subjects. I must 

Jewish Question confess that, as applied to music, the phrase 
Again. employed conveys to my mind very little mean- 
ing, and seems to be a mere echo of the outcry once raised in 
German Wagnerian circles against things Semitic, but it does 
serve to remind one of the interesting fact that historians of music 
are still debating the question whether our oldest Christian music 
— the Ambrosian and Gregorian chants — has come to us from 
Greece or Palestine. If, as is commonly believed, these chants 
are indeed the same as those once used in Solomon's temple, 

I In the Santa Barbara Kxprrss. 


there must have been a striking resemblance between them and 
the music of Greece, when early Christian musicians could apply 
to them the very names of the Greek modes. In this case, who 
will dare to say that it is out of place for a Jewish musician to 
compose music for a Greek play ? 

One word more. The writer has recently witnessed in Rome 
M. Mounet- Sully's representation of the Gldipus Tyranmis, as 
given at the Comedie-Francaise in Paris. It was 
undoubtedly brilliant in some respects, but I am '^""^ ' " y -^ 
convinced that the remark made by a cultivated '^ 

spectator was just, viz., that from such a performance one can 
learn much better what to avoid than what to imitate in present- 
ing a Greek play. This is especially true of the lyrical element. 
In the French version the chorus practically disappears ; the 
grand odes, which express the collective emotion of a dramatic 
group of elders, are ruined by being delivered in weak melo- 
drama by a single female voice; recitative and vocal melody are 
abandoned, and the result is a succession of dramatic scenes, 
which, with their long speeches, tend to become exceedingly 
monotonous, being unrelieved by the lyric color, movement, and 
variety of tone, which the Greeks considered essential to a great 
tragedy. H. Rushton Fairclough. 

Assembly Hall, Stanford University 
Thursday, April Seventeenth, Nineteen 
Hundred and Two, at Eight P. M., and 
Saturday, April Nineteenth, at Eleven A. M. 










IsMENE, her sister 

Chorus of Theban Elders, 

under the Coryphteus 
Creon, the Kitijr 
Guard . . . - 

H^:mon, son of Creon 
Tiresias, a seer - - - 

EuRYDiCE, the Queen - 
Second Messenger 

Attendants to the Queen 
Attendants to the King 

Extra Attendants 

Boy, attending Tiresias 

Miss E. Cooksey 
Miss E. Crandall 

Professor H. R. Fairclough 

Professor A. T. Murray 

Mr. J. K. Bonneil 

Mr. R. V. Reppy 

Professor S. S. Seward, Jr. 

Mr. K. Rees 

Mrs. J. P. Hall 

Mr. C. W. Thomas, Jr. 

Miss I. Richards 

Miss G. M. Smith 

j Mr. R. Bryan 

( Mr. R. A. Hamilton 

C Mr. H. A. Moran 

) xMr. J. J. Ryan 

\ Mr. J. McCaughern 

( Mr. J. S. King 

Robert Lindley Murray 


The Chorus is made up of the Coryphaeus and fourteen of the fol- 
lowing : Messrs. O. H. Clarke, J. E. Cline, B. R. Cocks, C. E. Ellis, 
E. C. Eppley, E. I. Frisselle, S. P. Frisselle, H. Gay, E. O. James, 
O. Kehrlein, H. R. Mockridge, H. L. Morrison, B. P. Oakford, A. Per- 
rin, H. M. Shipley, VV. J. Stack, E. Talbot, R. E. VVarfield. 

The music has been adapted to the Greek by Professor H. R. Fair- 

Prompter, Miss A. F. Weaver. 

Musical Director, Mr. A. L. Scott Brook. 

Stage Manager, Mr. Leo Cooper. 

The scene is laid in Thebes, before the royal palace. 

In order that the continuity of the play may not be interrupted, it will be impossible for 
others than the chorus to respond to encores. 



CEdipus, though unwittingly, had fulfilled the doom which the oracle declared should be 
his : he had slain with his owai hand his father, Laius, and had become the husband of his 
mother, Jocasta. When the horrible truth tecame known, Jocasta hanged herself and 
CEdipus dashed out his eyes with the brooch of her robe. 

The two sons of the ill-fated pair fell in deadly combat,— the younger, Eteocles, seeking 
to hold the Theban throne against his brother, Polynices, who had come with an alien host 
from Argos to claim his rights. 

Creon, the uncle of the two youths, has become king, and has declared that the corpse 
of Polynices shall be left unburied, to be rent of dogs and birds. To this edict the citizens 
submit, and with them Ismene, one of the two sisters, upon whom, as next of kin, the duty of 
paying burial rites to the fallen chiefly rested. The other sister, Antigone, in defiance of the 
edict, gives burial to her brother, and, sister's child to the king though she is, and betrothed 
to his son Hsemon, is herself condemned to be buried alive in a rocky vault, where she takes 
her life. 

Haemon slays himself in anguish by the side of his betrothed, and, learning of this, 
Eurydice, the wife of Creon, takes her life; so that woe upon woe Is heaped on the head of 
the unhappy king. 

S U M M A R Y O F T H E D R A .M A 

Antigone announces to Ismene her intention to perform the rites of burial over Polynicc-s. 
First choral song — The Glorious Victory. 

(a) Creon's speech. 

(b) Guard brings news that the corpse has been buried. 

Second choral song — Man's Audacity. 

(a) .Antigone led before Creon. 

(d) Guard's story of the arrest. 

(c) Antigone pleads guilty. Her noble defense. 
{(f) Isniene's devotion. Her appeal to Creon. 

(e) Creon, In anger, orders both to be kept in restraint. 

Third choral song — A House Accursed. Omnipotence of Zeus; Im- 
potence of Man. 

(a) Haemon pleads vainly with Creon. 

(6) Creon atmounces Antigone's terrible punishment. 

Fourth choral song — Love's Power. 

{a) Antigone's lament. Chorus is moved to sympathy. 
(6) Antigone led to her fate. 

Fiftli choral song — Like Fates of Danae, Lycurgus and Cleopatra. 

(a) Tiresias warns Creon ; and, when angered, aimounces divine vengeance. 
{6) Creon is moved, and, urged by the chorus, seeks to undo his deeds. 


Sixth Choral song — Invocation to Bacchus. 

(a) Messenger announces Htenion's suicide. 

(d) Eurydice's entrance. 

(c) Messenger's tale : Creon lias been too late. 

(rf) Eur>'dice silently withdraws. 

{e) Creon enters, with Hfeinon's lifeless body. 

(/) Creon's lament. 

(g) Chorus marches from the stage, singing of the fall that waits upon pride. 


Prof. F. Angell, Dr. G. B. Little. Messrs. E. L. Anderson, H. H. 
Atkinson, C. H. Baker, B. M. Breeden, C. E. Burton, H. E. Bush, Geo. 
H. Clark, O. H. Clarke, T. A. Cutting, G. W. Dryer, L. C. Hawley, 
W. R. Hogan, T. G. Hosmer, G. B. Jeffers, E. A. Jones, G. P. Jones, 
J. Josephson, J. S. King, A. J. Klamt, T. McCaughern, J. T. McManis, 

B. Nourse, M. Oppenheim, R. N. Park, W. D. Patterson, J. G. Perkins, 
R. L. Pleak, N. C. Powers, E. L. Rea, V. L. Talbert, J. C. Taylor, F. B. 
Tucker, E. Wakeman, H. A. VVeihe, F. T. Whitaker, W. T. VVhitaker. 


((ienerously put at the disposal of the Musical Director by its leader. Professor S. W. 
Young. ) 

First Violin: Messrs. G. A. Scoville, R. H. Bacon, Miss G. H. 
Bruckman, Messrs. A. J. Copp, C. E. Waite, E. V. Kehrlein, W. H. 
Shadburne, J. J. Wertheimer. Second Violin : Misses A. Pearson, C. Still- 
man, K. R. Kipp, Mr. C. C. James, Miss J. Henry, Messrs. V. E. Brackett, 
V. E. Stork, E. Williams. Viola: Messrs. H. W. Fowler, L. G. Levy. 
Cello: Mr. J. Hague. Bass: Mr. D. P. Campbell. F"lute : Professor B. 
E. Howard. Clarinet: Messrs. R. U. Fitting, VV. C. Piatt. Comet: 
Mr. A. E. Lee, Prof. C. B. Whittier, Mr. F. Roller. French Horn: 
Messrs. E. A. Martin, G. E. Lucas, C. Hatton. Trombone, Messrs. B. 

C. Bubb, C. A. Fitzgerald. Tympani : Mr. A. S. Halley. Piano: Miss 
E. R. Gossett. 

University of California 


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